Baltimore Club

Dear M.I.A.,

Stop playing games and put out some more damn music. Your myspace crumbs are not cutting it anymore.

Also, can I have your children?

Love,

Conny

Don’t you love how Baltimore Club music has become the soundtrack of the hipster life? No dance party can exist without the tag, “dirty, booty-bass, electro-clash madness” or some other foolishness thereof.

I remember listening to B-more club back when it was black and ‘hood and not in an ironic way. After you attend college in Philly (not Temple, not Drexel, but…) you eventually learn to tolerate the coked-up, frenzied, lil’ Mookie-produced “remix” of your fave R&B joint. The black people’s Reggaeton is now being bastardized by white girls with square hips and boys who don’t bathe and still look gay.

Either way, I need to stop hating because I know I’m gonna be in W’burg this weekend shaking my black ass like it’s about to fall off.